'So what, it won't kill you', replied Vasilisa hoarsely. 'Better to have to turn the table over than lose everything. Have you heard what's going on in the City? They're worse than the Bolsheviks.
They're searching houses indiscriminately, looking for officers who fought against them.'
At eleven o'clock Wanda carried the samovar from the kitchen into the dining-room and put out the lights everywhere else in the apartment. She produced a bag of stale bread and a lump of green cheese from the sideboard. The single lamp hanging over the table from one socket of a triple chandelier shed a dim reddish light from its semi-incandescent filament.
Vasilisa chewed a piece of bread roll and green cheese, which was so unpleasant that it made his eyes water as if he had a raging toothache. At every bite fine crumbs of the sickening stuff spattered his jacket and his tie. Uneasy, though not knowing quite why, Vasilisa glared at Wanda as she chewed.
'I'm amazed how easily they get away with it', said Wanda, glancing upwards towards the Turbins. 'I was certain that one of them had been killed. But no, they're all back, and now the apartment is full of officers again . . .'
At any other time Wanda's remarks would not have made the slightest impression on Vasilisa, but now, when he was tortured by fear and unease, he found them intolerably spiteful.
'I'm surprised at you', he replied, glancing away to avoid the irritation of looking at her, 'you know perfectly well that really they were doing the right thing. Somebody had to defend the City against those (Vasilisa lowered his voice) swine . . . Besides you're wrong if you think they got off lightly ... I think he's been . . .'
Wanda looked thoughtful and nodded.
'Yes, I thought so too when I went up there . . . You're right, he's been wounded . . .'
'Well, then, it's nothing to be pleased about - got away with it, indeed . . .'
Wanda licked her lips.
'I'm not pleased, I only say they seem to have "got away with it" because what I want to know is, when Petlyura's men come to you - which God forbid - and ask you, as chairman of the house committee, who are the people upstairs - what are you going to say? Were they in the Hetman's army, or what?'
Vasilisa scowled.
'I can say with absolute truth that he's a doctor. After all, there's no reason why I should know anything else about him. How could I?'
'That's the point. In your position you're supposed to know.'
At that moment the door-bell rang. Vasilisa turned pale, and Wanda turned her scrawny neck.
His nose twitching, Vasilisa stood up and said:
'D'you know what? Maybe I'd better run straight up to the Turbins and call them.'
Before Wanda had time to reply the bell rang again.
'Oh my God', said Vasilisa anxiously. 'Nothing for it - I shall have to go.'
Terrified, Wanda followed him. They opened their front door into the communal hallway, which smelled of the cold. Wanda's angular face, eyes wide with fear, peeped out. Above her head the electric bell gave another importunate ring.
For a moment the idea crossed Vasilisa's mind of knocking on the Turbins' glass door - someone would be bound to come down and things might not be so terrible. But he was afraid to do it. Suppose the intruders were to ask him: 'Why did you knock? Afraid of something? Guilty conscience?' Then came the hopeful thought, though a faint one, that it might not be a search-party but perhaps someone else . . .
'Who's there?' Vasilisa asked weakly at the door.
Immediately a hoarse voice barked through the keyhole at the level of Vasilisa's stomach and the bell over Wanda's head rang again.
'Open up', rasped the keyhole in Ukrainian. 'We're from headquarters. And don't try running away, or we'll shoot through the door.'
'Oh, God ., .' sighed Wanda.
With lifeless hands Vasilisa slid open the bolt and then lifted the heavy latch, after fumbling with the chain for what seemed like hours.
'Hurry up . . .' said the keyhole harshly.
Vasilisa looked outside to see a patch of gray sky, an acacia branch, snowflakes. Three men entered, although to Vasilisa they seemed to be many more.
'Kindly tell me why . . .'
'Search', said the first man in a wolfish voice, marching straight up to Vasilisa. The corridor revolved and Wanda's face in the lighted doorway seemed to have been powdered with chalk.
'In that case, if you don't mind', Vasilisa's voice sounded pale and colorless, 'please show me your warrant. I'm a peaceful citizen - I don't know why you want to search my house. There's nothing here', said Vasilisa, painfully aware that his Ukrainian had suddenly deserted him.
'Well, we've come to have a look', said the first man.
Edging backwards as the men pushed their way in, Vasilisa felt he was seeing them in a dream. Everything about the first man struck Vasilisa as wolf-like. Narrow face, small deep-set eyes, gray skin, long straggling whiskers, unshaven cheeks furrowed by deep grooves, he had a curious shifty look and even here, in a confined space, he managed to convey the impression of walking with the inhuman, loping gait of a creature at home in snow and grassland. He spoke a horrible mixture of Russian and Ukrainian, a language familiar to those inhabitants of the City who know the riverside district of Podol, where in summertime the quayside is alive with groaning, rattling winches and where ragged men unload watermelons from barges . . . On the wolf's head was a fur hat, a scrap of blue material with tinsel piping dangling loosely from one side.
The second man, a giant, almost touched the ceiling of Vasilisa's lobby. His complexion was as ruddy as a jolly, rosy-cheeked peasant woman's, and so young that there was no hair on his face. He wore a coarse sheepskin cap with moth-eaten earflaps, a gray overcoat, and his unnaturally small feet were clad in filthy, tattered rags.
The third man had a broken nose, one side of which was covered in a suppurating scab, and his upper lip was disfigured by a crudely stitched scar. On his head was an officer's old peaked cap
with a red band and a pale mark where the badge had once been. He wore an old-fashioned double-breasted army tunic with brass buttons covered in verdigris, a pair of black trousers, and bast foot-cloths round his instep over a pair of thick gray army-issue socks. His face in the lamplight was compounded of two colors - a waxy yellow and a dull violet, whilst his eyes stared with a look of malice and self-pity.
'We've come to have a look,' the wolf repeated, 'and here's our warrant.'
With this he dived into his trouser pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and thrust it at Vasilisa. While one of his eyes kept Vasilisa in a state of palsied fear, his other eye, the left, made a cursory inspection of the furniture in the lobby.
The crumpled sheet was folded into four, and was embossed: 'Headquarters 1st Cossack Corps.' Beneath that, written with indelible pencil in large sloping characters, was an order in Ukrainian:
You are instructed to carry out a search of the premises of citizen Vasily Lisovich, No. 13 St Alexei's Hill. Resistance to this order is punishable by summary execution.
signed: Protsenko, Chief of Staff Miklun Adjutant
In the lower left-hand corner was the indecipherable impression of a blue rubber stamp.
The sprays of flowers on the lobby wallpaper swam slightly in front of Vasilisa's eyes and he said as the wolf regained possession of the piece of paper:
'Come in, please, but there's nothing here . . .'
The wolf pulled a black, oil-smeared automatic out of his pocket and pointed it at Vasilisa. Wanda gave a muffled scream. A long, businesslike revolver, also gleaming with oil, appeared in the hand of the man with the disfigured face. Vasilisa's knees weakened and he seemed to grow shorter. Suddenly the electric light flashed brightly on to full power.
'Who's here?' asked the wolf in a hoarse voice.
'No one', Vasilisa replied through white lips. 'Just me and my wife.'
'Come on, lads - let's have a lo
ok. And quick', grunted the wolf to his companions. 'No time to waste.'
The giant picked up a heavy wooden chest and shook it like a box of matches, whilst the disfigured man darted towards the stove. Pocketing his revolver, he hammered with his fists on the wall, noisily flung open the stove door sending out a wave of tepid heat.
'Any weapons?' asked the wolf.
'No, on my word of honor . . . why should I have a weapon . . .'
'No', echoed Wanda's shadow breathlessly.
'Better say if you have. Ever seen a man shot?' asked the wolf meaningfully.
'Why should I have a gun?'
The green-shaded lamp was burning brightly in the study where Alexander II, indignant to the depth of his cast-iron soul, stared at the three intruders. In the green light of the study Vasilisa discovered for the first time in his life the dizzy feeling that comes before a fainting-fit. All three men began immediately to examine the wallpaper. In great heaps, as if they were toys, the giant flung down row upon row of books from the bookshelf, whilst six hands tapped their way all over the wallpaper. Tap, tap, tap . . . the wall echoed dully. Suddenly the box in the secret cache rang out: tonk. The wolf's eyes shone with glee.
'What did I say?' he whispered noiselessly. The giant stamped a hole with his feet through the leather of the armchair and rose almost to the ceiling. There was a cracking sound as the giant's fingers broke into the cache. He pulled out the tin box and threw the string-tied paper package down to the wolf. Vasilisa staggered and leaned against the wall. The wolf began to shake his head and shook it for a long time as he stared at the half-dead Vasilisa.
'Well, well, well', he said bitterly. 'What's all this? Nothing here, you said, but seems you've sealed up your money in the wall. You ought to be shot!'
'Oh, no!' cried Wanda.
Something odd happened to Vasilisa, and he suddenly burst into convulsive laughter. It was a terrible laugh because Vasilisa's eyes were alive with fear and only his lips, nose and cheeks were laughing.
'But I haven't broken the law. There's nothing there except some papers from the bank and a few little things . . . There's not much money . . . I've earned it all . . . Anyway, all tsarist money is cancelled now . . .'
As Vasilisa spoke he stared at the wolf as though the sight of him gave him a morbid, unnatural pleasure.
'You should be arrested', said the wolf reprovingly as he shook the packet and dropped it into the bottomless pocket of his tattered greatcoat. 'Come on, lads, see to the desk.'
From the desk drawers, opened by Vasilisa himself, there poured forth heaps of paper, seals, signets, postcards, pens, cigarette cases. The green carpet and the red cloth of the table-top were strewn with paper, sheets of paper fell rustling to the floor. The disfigured man overturned the wastepaper basket. In the drawing-room they tapped the walls superficially, almost reluctantly. The giant pulled back the carpet and stamped on the floor, purposely leaving a row of marks like burns in the wood. Now that the current had been increased for night-time, the electricity sputtered cheerfully on full power and the phonograph horn glittered brightly. Vasilisa followed the three men, stumbling and dragging his feet. A certain stunned calm came over Vasilisa and his thoughts seemed to flow more coherently. Then into the bedroom - instant chaos as clothes, sheets poured out of the mirror-fronted wardrobe and the mattress was turned upside down. The giant suddenly stopped, a shy grin broke out over his face and he looked down. From beneath the ravaged bed peeped Vasilisa's new kid boots with lacquered toes. The giant laughed, glanced timidly at Vasilisa.
'There's a smart pair of boots', he said in a high-pitched voice. 'I wonder if they fit me?'
Vasilisa had no time to think of a reply before the giant bent down and tenderly picked up the boots. Vasilisa shuddered.
'They're kid', he said vaguely.
As the wolf turned on him, bitter anger flashed in his squinting eyes:
'Quiet, you bastard', he said grimly. 'Shut up!' he said again, suddenly losing his temper. 'You ought to thank us for not shooting you as a thief and a bandit for hoarding that fortune of yours. So you be quiet.' His eyes glistened with menace as he advanced on the deathly pale Vasilisa. 'You've been sitting here, making your pile, feeding your ugly mug till you're as pink as a pig - and now you can see what people like us have to wear on their feet. See? His feet are frost-bitten and wrapped in rags, he rotted in the trenches for you while you were sitting at home and playing the phonograph. Ah, you mother-f. . .' In his eyes flashed an urge to punch Vasilisa in the ear, and he swung his arm. Wanda screamed: 'No . . .' The wolf did not quite dare to punch the respectable Vasilisa and only poked him in the chest with his fist. Chalk-white> Vasilisa staggered, feeling a stab of pain and anguish in his chest at the blow from that bony fist.
'That's revolution for you', he thought in his pink, neat head. 'Fine state of affairs. We should have strung them all up, and now it's too late . . .'
'Put those boots on, Vasilko', the wolf said in a kindly voice to the giant, who sat down on the springy mattress and pulled off his foot-cloths. The boots would not fit over his thick gray socks.
'Give the cossack a pair of thin socks', the wolf said sternly, turning to Wanda, who at once squatted down to pull out the bottom drawer of the chest-of-drawers and took out a pair of socks. The giant threw away his thick gray socks showing feet with red toes and black corns, and pulled on the new pair. The boots went on with difficulty and the laces on the left boot broke with a snap. Delighted, grinning like a child, the giant tied the frayed ends and stood up. And immediately it was as if something snapped in the tense relationship between those five ill-assorted people. They began to act more naturally. With a glance at the giant's boots the disfigured man suddenly reached out and deftly snatched Vasilisa's trousers that were hanging on a hook alongside
the washstand. The wolf simply gave Vasilisa another suspicious glance - would he say anything? - but Vasilisa and Wanda said nothing; their faces were both the same shade of unrelieved white, their eyes wide and round. The bedroom began to look like a corner of a ready-made clothing store. The man with the disfigured face stood there in nothing but his torn, striped underpants and examined the trousers in the light.
'Nice bit of serge, this . . .' he said in a nasal whine, sat down in a blue armchair and began to pull them on. The wolf exchanged his dirty tunic for Vasilisa's grey jacket, and said as he handed some papers back to Vasilisa: 'Here take these, mister, you may need them.' He picked up a globe-shaped glass clock from the table, its face adorned with broad Roman figures, and as the wolf pulled on his greatcoat the clock could be heard ticking underneath it.
'Useful thing, a clock. Being without a clock's like being without hands', the wolf said to broken-nose, his attitude to Vasilisa noticeably relenting. 'I like to be able to see what time it is at night.'
Then all three moved off, back through the drawing-room to the study. Together Vasilisa and Wanda followed after them. In the study the wolf, squinting hard, looked thoughtful and said to Vasilisa:
'Better give us a receipt, Mister . . .' (His forehead creased like an accordion as he wrestled with some obviously disturbing thought.)
'What?' whispered Vasilisa.
'Receipt, saying you gave us these things', the wolf explained, staring at the floor.
Vasilisa's expression changed, his cheeks turned pink.
'But how can I . . . What . . .' (He wanted to shout 'What! you mean to say I have to give you a receipt as well!' but quite different words came out.) 'Why do you need a receipt?'
'Ah, you ought to be shot like a dog, you . . . you blood sucker. I know what you're thinking, I know. If your people were in power you'd squash us like insects. I can see there's no good to be
had outof you. Boys, put him up against the wall. I'll give you such a thrashing . . .'
Working himself up until he was shaking with fury, he pushed Vasilisa against the wall and clutched him by t
he throat, at which Vasilisa instantly turned red.
'Oh!' shrieked Wanda in horror, tugging at the wolf's arm. 'Stop it! Mercy, for God's sake! Vasya, do as he says and write it!'
The wolf released the engineer's throat, and with a crack one half of his collar burst away from the stud as though on a spring. Vasilisa did not remember how he came to be sitting in his chair. With shaking hands he tore a sheet from a note-pad, dipped his pen into the ink. In the silence the crystal globe could be heard ticking in the wolf's pocket.
'What shall I write?' Vasilisa asked in a weak, cracked voice.
The wolf began to think, his eyes blinking.
'Write . . . "By order of headquarters of the cossack division . . . I surrendered . . . articles . . . articles ... to the sergeant as follows"
'As follows . . .' croaked Vasilisa, and was silent.
'Then say what they are . . . "In the course of search. I have no claims." Then sign . . .'
Here Vasilisa gathered the last remnants of the breath in his body and turning his glance away from the wolf, he asked:
'Who shall I say I gave them to?'
The wolf looked suspiciously at Vasilisa, but he restrained his displeasure and only sighed.
'Write: Sergeant Nemolyak . . .' He thought for a moment, glancing at his companions. '. . . Sergeant Kirpaty and Hetman Uragan.'
Staring muzzily at the paper, Vasilisa wrote to the wolf's dictation. Having written it, instead of his proper signature he wrote 'Vasilis' and handed the paper to the wolf, who took it and stared at it.
Just then the glass door at the top of the staircase slammed, footsteps were heard and Myshlaevsky's voice rang out.
The wolf scowled, his companions shuffled uneasily. The wolf turned red in the face and hissed: 'Quiet!' He pulled the automatic out of his pocket and pointed it at Vasilisa, who gave a martyred smile. From the corridor came more footsteps, muffled talk. Then there was the sound of the bolt being drawn, the latch, the chain -and the door was locked again. Footsteps again, men laughing. After that the glass door slammed, the sound of steps receding upstairs and all was quiet. The disfigured man went out into the lobby, leaned his head against the door and listened. When he returned he exchanged meaning glances with the wolf and all three jostled their way out into the lobby. There the giant wriggled his fingers inside his boots, which were rather tight.
The White Guard Page 24
